


Behind Closed Doors

by Mssmithlove



Series: Happiness Awaits [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, First Day of School, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining Sherlock, Secret Relationship, Summer, Summer Love, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:29:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/pseuds/Mssmithlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An hour earlier, everything had been different. Sherlock Holmes' heart had not been in pieces on the tiled hallway floor of his secondary school, grey eyes blinking back the tears threatening to fall down his cheeks, knees shaking with the effort not to buckle and knock him to the ground on the first day of his last year here before university.</p><p>An hour earlier, Sherlock Holmes had been happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Closed Doors

**Author's Note:**

> Written for FuckYeahTeenlock's Back To School Contest! This is my official submittal =)
> 
> It has a happy ending so I'm putting it in my Happiness Awaits series because I want to =) I hope you enjoy it!
> 
>  _Special thanks to essentially my beta ishaveforsherl, thank you for reading what I ask of you, brainstorming ideas and thinking of this brilliant title for me! I LOVE YOU AND I CAN'T THANK YOU ENOUGH!_  

**September 14th**  
_7:55AM_

 

An hour earlier, those dark jeans wrapped snugly around John Watson's perfect arse had been lying in a crumpled pile on Sherlock Holmes' bedroom floor.

An hour earlier, that wrinkled button-down fitting John Watson's slim torso so exquisitely had been flung over the back of Sherlock Holmes' desk chair.

An hour earlier, short, tanned fingers had been holding tightly to a boney hip. A rough, calloused palm had been pressed to a racing heart. Damp lips had been exhaling heated, sleeping breathes against a pale ear at the same tempo of a chest rising and falling along sharp shoulder blades.

An hour earlier, everything had been different. Sherlock Holmes' heart had not been in pieces on the tiled hallway floor of his secondary school, grey eyes blinking back the tears threatening to fall down his cheeks, knees shaking with the effort not to buckle and knock him to the ground on the first day of his last year here before university.

An hour earlier, Sherlock Holmes had been happy.

Or the closest he'd ever get to it.

But even an hour earlier, he'd known exactly how this day would go.

He'd known since the day this started. He'd _known_.

Christ, he doesn't even know  _how_ this started.

Well.

That may not be true.

He  _knows_  how it started.

It's impossible not to  _know_.

 _It_ started in the summer.

But the rest of it started long ago.

Maybe it was the year before.

Or the year before that.

Or maybe it started ten years previously when John Watson had joined his class, sat down with him at lunch and shared his bag of crackers after peering into Sherlock's empty lunchbox, pouring two handfuls of crumbling crackers into his outstretched palms.

Yes, it probably started then.

Or maybe it was when John promised to be his best friend forever a week later, shaking Sherlock's hand. A gentlemen's agreement between eight-year-olds.  _Forever_ , John had nodded very seriously, deep blue eyes locked with Sherlock's grey, grip firm and unquestioning. As if there was one thing John's young heart believed, it was that he and Sherlock would be the best of mates for the rest of their lives.

Even at age eight Sherlock felt that promise bone-deep. He understood the severity of it. He'd made his own promise after all, and he'd meant it to the very core of his naïve soul.

Sherlock supposes it doesn't matter when it started. What matters is that it  _did_. John Watson had been his very best friend for ten long years, navigating the treacherous waters of primary and secondary school, attached at the hip, the closest of mates. Sherlock was there when John got his first note from a girl in their class. John was there when Sherlock got his first punch to the face. Sherlock was there when John kissed Heidi Jameson behind the fence at lunchtime. John was there when Sherlock decided he'd never kiss a girl as long as he lived. Sherlock was there when John's parents decided to get a divorce. John was there when Mycroft moved out. Sherlock was there when John's mother started drinking. John was there when Redbeard died. Sherlock was there when John made the Varsity rugby team. John was there when Sherlock was accepted into the gifted and talented program at school. Sherlock was there when Harry came out. John was there when Sherlock was first called a freak.

 _Ten years_.

More than half of Sherlock's lifetime.

And this, he supposes, is how ten beautiful, perfect years of friendship crumbles to nothing.

And the worst of it is: he fucking saw it coming.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **July 1st**  
_2:00AM_

 

Snapping awake at two o'clock in the morning is not unusual for Sherlock Holmes. His body urges him up and at 'em at ungodly hours of the night, his internal clock never running on when the sun rises and sets, eyes flying open in the darkness, alert and ready to function almost immediately.

But tonight, it isn't his body waking him.

It's a sharp rap on the glass of his bedroom window. Three succinct knocks that rattle the metal clasps and Sherlock is immediately out of bed, rubbing his sleepy eyes and fumbling through the dark toward the sound, body already complaining internally of the movements it hadn't decided he was ready to be making quite yet.

Reaching for the curtain hanging low across the frame and tugging, the curly-haired boy stops short as giant blue eyes meet his from the other side of the glass.

John Watson is blinking back at him, blonde hair sticking up on one side of his head, navy rugby jacket wrapped snugly around his frame, hands that presumably had just tapped on his window now shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders slumping in relief at the sight of his best friend.

Sherlock doesn't hesitate.

This isn't the first time John has appeared at his house in the middle of the night without so much as a text message and Sherlock doubts it'll be the last.

Standard procedure, he unhinges the latch and shoves the glass frame upward, then turns before John has even moved to rummage through his closet.

John crawls inside, body rolling over the wooden lip in one swift, practiced motion, and doesn't say a word.

He doesn't have to explain.

Sherlock already knows.

Pulling free two pillows and a blanket, a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, his John Watson overnight kit as he thinks of it, he tosses them at the defeated blond standing in the middle of his bedroom before making his way back to his giant bed to give his friend the space he needs, suddenly exhausted all over again.

Knowing the things John goes through at home is painful.

Seeing it first hand on nights like these hurts more than Sherlock could ever begin to describe. It's excruciating watching those beautiful blue eyes aching with a sadness he can't even put a name to, watching that always bright, happy face darken with worry. It's never been easy for Sherlock to handle.

Though, if there is one place he'd prefer John to be on nights like these, it's right here with him. It's comforting, John in his bed. John's deep sleeping breaths. John's sturdy, reliable form, causing a small dip in the mattress from his weight, unknowingly soothing Sherlock with his presence alone.

It's calming, somehow.

Crawling into bed and turning toward the wall, Sherlock listens as John shuffles to the adjoining bathroom and closes the door softly, throwing the room back into total silence.

And Sherlock takes the opportunity to close his eyes and take a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, the only outward sign that this affects him. The only outward sign of how much this  _hurts_ him. Something he would never let on to John.

Because, unfortunately, its nights like tonight that he knows, he bloody well  _knows_ , and he cannot deny it. He can't deny it to himself, not during these hours, not while John sleeps only meters from him. He knows those lingering gazes he's caught himself holding, those fond smiles he can't help tossing in the blond's direction, that warmth that blooms in his chest when John grins or laughs; he  _knows_  what it is.

And it's always been there. Ten years and embarrassingly enough Sherlock has only recently acknowledged the love he holds for his best friend goes beyond friendship and comradery and rapport. It goes beyond fondness and appreciation and affection.

It's soul deep, life altering, right down to the heart of it, right down to the center of his entire world, right down to where everything starts and begins with that one boy. Every day has no light until he sees his face, every night is lonely without him, every moment of Sherlock's life revolves around that single person.

Because Sherlock Holmes is in love with John Watson.

And maybe that's okay by now. Maybe it's okay to be in love with his best friend because it's been ten years and that ache that was so sharp a few years ago, that awful, horrible, hallowing need in his chest that made him want to do things like wrap his arms around that fit body and press his mouth to those pink lips and run his fingers through that soft, blond fringe had finally dulled. After beating it into submission for a very  _very_  long time, Sherlock can function again. Sherlock and John can be Sherlock and John without any complications like  _sentiment_ of all things.

And it's been working. It's been  _fine_. Sherlock has been so good, no slip-ups, no accidentals, no awkward moments. He's been  _fine_.

But nights like tonight make it infinitely harder than necessary.

Nights like tonight make it feel like it's not a farfetched possibility. Like maybe John comes to him for a reason beyond their friendship. Like maybe John feels more than just a friendly bond with Sherlock.

Like maybe he could love him.

A ridiculous notion, Sherlock knows.

But it doesn't stop the hope from rising in his chest at the sight of John Watson at his window.

The sound of the door handle turning and the click of the light switching off catches Sherlock's attention as he listens to John make his way across the dark room. There's a soft  _swoosh_  as a pile of discarded clothing hits the floor and then the telling dip of the bed puts Sherlock on high alert.

Maybe it's odd that they still share a bed but after ten years it doesn't seem it. Besides, Sherlock's king-sized bed is enough space for them both to sleep on separate sides comfortably and where else would John sleep? On the floor? In a guestroom? Absolutely not. He needs to be here. He comes here to feel comfortable. He comes here to _not_  be alone. And Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way.

He waits for John to settle, listening to the boy toss and turn and tug the covers over his shoulders before letting out a heavy sigh, body melting into the bed and finally relaxing.

And then Sherlock waits some more.

Because he knows John Watson.

He knows how this works.

They lay quietly for a long while, listening to each other breathe in the silent of the night. Sherlock can practically hear the war going on inside of John's head and his hand twitches with the need to reach out and touch him. Comfort him. Remind him that he's not alone. Remind him that somebody loves him, even when it feels like his own family doesn't.

"She brought Harry out with her tonight," John murmurs, breaking the silence.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock turns toward his friend. He hates so much that he saw that coming from a mile away.

Harry's drinking had been getting progressively worse. It was probably rather easy for her seeing as the Watson house was stocked with every kind of alcohol one could imagine.

"They stumbled in around one o'clock this morning," John continues. "They were laughing and it woke me up."

The sentence rises slightly in pitch and Sherlock's stomach clenches in agony as John's breath audibly catches in his throat on a sob.

"She's seventeen," he whispers. "She's seventeen and her  _mother_...  _my_  mother... they were... they were  _laughing_." John's voice breaks on the last word. Sherlock can feel the blanket pull a bit as John clenches his palms into it.

He can't resist the urge any longer and gives in.

Sliding a hand across the top of the knitted comforter, his fingers connect with a fist pulled taught.

He ignores the tiny flutter of his heart when John doesn't hesitate, letting go of the blanket and grabbing onto Sherlock's hand like it's a lifeline. His palm is hot against Sherlock's, practically burning a hole into it as his fingers wrap around the top of his hand, clamping down into a tight grasp. Sherlock is grateful to be in the dark where John can't see his absurdly red face, because this isn't about that right now.

Releasing a shaky breath, John sniffs harshly and it's painful not to pull him closer, not to hold him and kiss his tears away and tell him it'll be okay.

Instead, Sherlock tightens his grip.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock murmurs and if it comes out rather unsteady, John is kind enough not to mention it.

Squeezing his hand, John shifts slightly closer to him. "Thank you," he breathes back, and Sherlock's heart soars at the fact that he's offered a bit of comfort to his hurting friend.

To his John.

They lay silently, falling asleep like that, hands clasped together, bodies turned toward one another, and Sherlock falls into a dreamless slumber, holding onto his favorite person in the world.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **September 14th**  
_8:00AM_

 

He has no idea how he made it to first period. It's a miracle, honestly. He's in a daze, really. A fog. Nothing seems real. He wishes none of this _were_ real.

Which irritates him because he'd prepared for this. He knew it was coming, he knew from day one. He'd prepped quite thoroughly, even giving himself a pep talk in the mirror before heading out this morning. He knew exactly what would happen.  _Exactly_. Right down to the ruddy cheeks and fidgeting fingers and avoidance of eye contact. He  _knew_.

The reality of it hurts more than his imagination could have ever equipped him for.

The bell rings sharply in his ears and he wonders if the world would be kind enough to split wide open today and swallow him whole.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **July 1st**  
_3:30AM_

 

The next time Sherlock wakes, he doesn't know what it's from. He doesn't know what caused it. There is no sound to have woken him, no touch to have startled him awake.

But the air around him is somehow…  _charged_. Somehow buzzing slightly with possibility, straining with something he can't define. He doesn't know if it's his own body reacting to the presence of the beautiful boy in his bed or something else entirely.

Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, Sherlock assesses his surroundings and himself, double-checking that nothing is amiss, that nothing may have… occurred while he was sleeping.

His hand is quite a bit colder than it had been when he'd fallen asleep, no longer cocooned in that of John Watson's firm grip, though it lays in the same place it had been. He screws up his face slightly, scrunching his eyes shut and blinking them open again, trying to determine what exactly is going on around him.

And that's when the light of the moon catches a glimpse of that hand that had been wrapped around his when he'd fallen asleep. It moves slowly, cautiously, and Sherlock opens his fingers, ready to accept it again and fold it back into his grasp where it belongs, already missing the contact, the heat of it in his hand.

Instead, that hand of John's seems to be on a different course.

A tiny gasp hitches harshly in Sherlock's throat as he lies very still, watching almost as if in slow motion as a small, calloused hand reaches across the small space between them. He holds his breath as he watches the progression, heart pounding harder in his chest, realizing exactly where that appendage is going to land and he waits in impatient silence, anticipation building in his gut, needing this touch more than he needs air.

As though sensing his wakefulness, John's silhouette freezes, arm still in midair.

They regard each other silently, unseeing but seeing. Sherlock wonders if this has ever happened before. If John has ever done this while he's been asleep. If John ever reaches for him in the night.

He might have in the past.

Sherlock has no idea.

But that doesn't change the now.

The  _right now_.

The right now that has John Watson reaching a hand toward him, wading into uncharted waters between them, breaking down barriers Sherlock has so carefully crafted to keep his fragile heart from shattering under a single touch from his best friend, an absurd pipedream he now realizes as blood rushes in his ears.

And suddenly, John's hand is moving again. And Sherlock forgets how to breathe altogether, watching with wide eyes as it creeps closer.

His body shivers slightly.

The touch is soft. So soft and gentle, just like his John, fingertips landing on a sharp cheekbone and caressing it smoothly, gliding along pale skin that heats under the touch. Exhaling on a shaky breath, Sherlock's eyelids threaten to fall closed as he revels in this, revels in his best friend, the one he's loved for over half of his life, finally laying intimate hands on him like this. It's exquisite, this single stroke across his cheek, the affection pouring from those five fingertips so intensely Sherlock can hardly stop his lashes from fluttering.

They don't speak. Sherlock is quite certain he wouldn't be able to form proper words if asked right at this moment.

Because right at that moment, John shifts closer.

And Sherlock's heart all but bursts in his chest.

Those precious fingers glide along his jawline, skimming below his ear and finding their way into the dark curls at the nape of his neck, twining into them and holding on as the dark outline of John Watson looms closer, Sherlock tracing his moonlit frame, parting his lips in a soft gasp as a puff of John's warm breath ghosts over his face, the closeness of their mouths undeniable now.

"Can I?" John murmurs into the darkness, fingers tightening in Sherlock's hair ever so slightly, emphasizing his whispered plea, and Sherlock's body melts under the touch.

All he can do is nod his head, curls brushing against the pillow, watching with baited breath as the shadow of his best friend comes closer.

He swears he can hear the pounding of his own heart in the silence of the room as it fills his own ears, can practically feel his pulse leaping in his neck in anticipation, entire body thrumming, pulled rigid and ready for something he only ever thought he'd have in his dreams.

He freezes, the silent night falling mute around him as everything narrows down to this all too familiar figure moving toward him.

And at the first touch of dry lips, Sherlock's entire world comes grinding to a halt.

And just like that, everything changes.

Lips, those beautiful lips that he's thought about on more occasions than appropriate move against his in a slow undulation, pushing in a perfect rhythm with his own. Christ, those lips are as soft as he'd always thought they'd be, smooth and kind, touching his in reverence, lingering with each press. It's  _magnificent_. It's warm and so tender against Sherlock's mouth, just like John, just like everything John has ever given Sherlock, but better. So much  _better_.

And then John's lips part, pushing Sherlock's open as he goes and suddenly there is heat rushing into his mouth and down his throat, spreading into every space of his body in the span of a single heartbeat, filling him to the brim with an aching, roaring, all-consuming need to keep John's mouth on his for all time. He's terrified of it and he can't move, can hardly stand to take a breath for fear of losing this feeling. He stays on his side, stays huddled against his pillow, allowing John to take him over entirely.

John's tongue sweeps into his mouth and Sherlock moans without thinking at the sudden surge of fireworks that explode along every nerve-ending of his body, his insides begging for more John, more John everywhere, more more _more_  and he reaches out to grip a hand into John's shirt, to keep him here, to let him take him completely when suddenly it's over.

The dip of a fit body is gone.

The heat of a wet mouth is gone.

 _John_  is gone.

Sherlock blinks open his eyes, adjusting to the darkness to see John scrambling to get as far away from him as possible.

A jagged crack trails down the center of Sherlock's heart and cracks it right in two as he watches John run from him.

"I- I'm sorry-" John stammers scrambling out of the bed and onto his feet.

Sherlock doesn't respond. He lays very still, listening to John find his shoes, trying to focus, to assess the situation, to bloody  _understand_  what just happened.

John fumbles for a moment longer before rocketing himself at the window, throwing it open and practically diving out.

And Sherlock turns his head into his pillow to cover the sob escaping his lips and doesn't say a word.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **September 14th**  
_10:00AM_

 

It's two full classes before he sees him again.

Fourth hour, right before lunch, and Sherlock wishes he'd eaten today so he could go throw up this thick feeling in his throat that's threatening to suffocate him.

John's head is down, shoulders stiff and unyielding as he shuffles down the corridor, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple that only Sherlock would think to look for.

Sherlock knows John saw him. He  _knows_.

And good god, he hates it.

He  _hates_  it.

How?

How can his best friend do this?

How can his best friend do this _to him_?

With a pounding head and a heavy heart, Sherlock drags himself to his next class, wishing more than anything that this brutal day would just bloody  _end_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **July 3rd**  
_1:30AM_

 

It's two days before he comes back.

Three sharp knocks and Sherlock is up and out of bed, practically racing to the window to let John in, ready to get this over with. He's mulled it all over and he's ready for this conversation. He's clearheaded and laser focused and he will make this right. He has to.

He's had 48 hours to think this over and he knows exactly what happened that night and he's ready to apologize and forget and go back to being the friends that they are because Christ if he doesn't miss John more than he ever has before.

It was a mistake. A stupid bloody mistake. Emotional upheaval will do that to a person. And John had had more than enough emotional upheaval than anyone deserves in a lifetime. Traumatic experiences can cause people to act out of character. Sherlock has read all about it in the past two days. And seeing one's baby sister drunkenly stumble in with one's alcoholic mother at one o'clock in the morning can definitely be classified as traumatic.

Because, of all the evidence in front of him, Sherlock knows that this would have never ever happened had it not been for an emotional event. Had it not been for their close friendship and their connection and Sherlock's open-window policy, there would have been no kiss at all. John would never kiss Sherlock if he were in his right mind. Not ever. Several factors have brought him to this conclusion, because that's what he has;  _facts_. The fact that John doesn't date boys. The fact that John likes blondes. Blonde  _girls_  to be exact. John likes bright smiling females with straight hair and heavy make-up. John likes short-term girlfriends and a bit of  _fun_  as he puts it. John likes… well, John likes the exact opposite of Sherlock in a snogging partner.

Not to mention they are friends.

Friends who have been through a lot together.

John doesn't kiss his friends.

And all of this leads to one single conclusion: it wasn't Sherlock John wanted that night.

It was just someone. And Sherlock is sure that John is embarrassed and horrified and never ever wanting it to happen again, let alone anyone ever knowing about it.

And Sherlock would  _never ever_  tell  _anyone_. Not ever. He will make that promise to John as soon as they start this agonizing conversation. He will keep this a secret. He will promise John that he will.

And he will apologize because Sherlock is sorry and Sherlock wants to get past it so badly. It was  _his_  responsibility not to let John kiss him, not to let John's emotional state push them into something they had no business doing. It was  _his_ responsibility and now he's sorrier than he's ever been for letting it happen. He's so damn  _sorry._

The top of a blond head meets him as he pulls back the curtain, those beautiful blue eyes hidden away staring down at worn trainers, hands, as always, hidden in jean pockets.

Sherlock takes a breath before opening the window, squaring his shoulders and clenching his jaw. He's nervous but he wants to do this. He wants this to be done. He wants things to be  _okay_.

He waits, stepping back as John rolls over the ledge and into his room. The blond boy straightens, pulling the bottom of his rugby jacket down to smooth it out and Sherlock's heart beats faster at the sight of him.

Two days without laying eyes on John Watson is two days too long.

Blue eyes find Sherlock's and silently regard him for a moment before falling back to the floor. And just as Sherlock is about to launch into a rather lengthy apology, John beats him to it.

"I- I'm sorry, Sherlock," John mumbles to the wooden floorboards. "I didn't… I shouldn't have done what I did the other night. I… I dunno what I was thinking. 'M sorry."

Much shorter than Sherlock had intended but nevertheless an apology.

Though, if Sherlock's deduction skills are on point this evening, a rather questionable one.

John doesn't look the least bit apologetic. Nervous, sure. Embarrassed, maybe. But sorry? No. Not at all.

"Are you?" He ventures, peering at the top of that shaggy golden head that refuses to look at him.

"'Course," John argues half-heartedly to his feet with a small lift and fall of his shoulder in a casual shrug.

Something's not right.

Eyes locking in on that blond head that is telling him absolutely nothing, Sherlock narrows his grey eyes in scrutiny, attempting to decipher exactly what it is John is trying to say with that unenthusiastic apology.

John takes a deep, unsteady breath, tilting his head slightly up with the movement and Sherlock catches just a glimpse of a bright red cheek flushed, blotching down the side of his neck and disappearing into his collar.

Oh, god.

Not embarrassment, then.

Aroused.

John Watson is aroused while in Sherlock's bedroom.

And every fact Sherlock thought he had suddenly shifts.

John likes girls.

But maybe not exclusively.

John is embarrassed but not about kissing Sherlock, no. About  _wanting_ to kiss Sherlock. He's embarrassed because he'd  _wanted_  the kiss.

And he's nervous because…

Ah.

That fact holds true then.

John is nervous because he doesn't want anyone to know. He doesn't want anyone to know he wants to kiss Sherlock Holmes.

Which is fair.

No one else in the entire school wants to kiss Sherlock Holmes.

It's understandable that that fact would be embarrassing for someone.

But Sherlock will keep this secret. If John wants to snog him again or… or whatever else he'd like to do, Sherlock will let him. Sherlock is fine with that. And Sherlock will never tell another soul for as long as he lives.

Taking another step closer, Sherlock brushes a hand over top John's, just a gentle but reassuring touch that yes, he can have him if he wants him. That yes, Sherlock will say yes to whatever John wants.

Gasping slightly at the touch, John watches as Sherlock curls his fingers around his hand, before lifting his head, breath shaking as he exhales. "Sherlock-" he starts, gaze trailing up Sherlock's face to find his eyes.

But something in Sherlock's face seems to stop him mid-sentence and Sherlock freezes right along with him, feeling terribly unsure and out of his depth.

John blinks at him, lips parted slightly and something rolls unpleasantly in Sherlock's stomach.

Taking a cautious step forward, Sherlock leans in slightly, trying to get a better look at the lines in John's face, trying to understand what exactly he's attempting to say with this look. "John?"

But that short but powerful body is surging toward him and Sherlock stumbles slightly on impact, entirely unprepared, though John catches him in his grasp, pressing his mouth to Sherlock's insistently, wrapping fingers into Sherlock's sleep shirt and holding him close as he plunders his mouth.

"No," John all but growls against his lips, "No, I'm not sorry at all."

"Me either," Sherlock counters, giving back as good as he's getting, body going pliant in John's arms. He knows he shouldn't say that, he knows he should be sorry, but right now he's very much  _not_ sorry. He's not sorry for letting John kiss him two nights ago, he's not sorry for wanting to kiss John and he's not sorry for kissing John now.

So he stops being sorry altogether.

He can keep a secret. John wants him behind closed doors. That's fine. He can do that. He will take whatever he can get.

And he rushes forward head-on into the obliteration of his ten year friendship with John Watson.

It's the only way this will end.

He knows that.

But right now, in the heat of this undeniable moment, he cannot be arsed to care.

It's much rougher than the last time. The last time had been hesitant and curious, worried and afraid. This time… this time there is no confusion. No concern. No question as to what they both want.

This time, Sherlock is clinging just as harshly to John as John is to him and everything goes blessedly silent as his entire world narrows down to John and John's strong body and John's warm mouth and John's hands in his shirt.

And before Sherlock realizes it, his back is hitting the comforter and John is following him down, laying his strong, fit frame across Sherlock's, effectively sealing their bodies together, and Sherlock moans, scrabbling at John's back to pull him closer.

John tastes  _divine_.

He tastes of tea and sugar and smells like cleanliness and home and Sherlock digs his fingers into John's jacket to keep him as close as possible.

"Jesus," John murmurs between long deep strokes of his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. "I… what are we doing? What are we doing?"

"We're snogging, John," Sherlock murmurs, unwilling to let go long enough to talk this through, gripping a hand on John's hip and yanking him down, forcing them both to groan.

"Y-yeah, oh  _Christ_ , yes- I-I know but-" John keeps attempting to talk as Sherlock grinds his pelvis against him, because he doesn't want to talk, he doesn't want to think, he just wants John in every way possible.

"Shut up," Sherlock grouses, biting John's lip and reveling in John's answering moan.

"Oh god, but Sherlock I… I don't… I can't-"

"I won't tell anyone," Sherlock cuts him off again, words coming out a bit sharp and desperate, holding John to him, "It'll be our secret. I won't tell  _anyone_."

The boy above him falters for a moment, breath gasping in Sherlock's mouth and for a moment the curly-haired boy thinks he's going to run away again, before John relaxes back over him, finding Sherlock's mouth again and diving in.

So, he'd been right.

John wants to keep this a secret.

Sherlock can already see the beginning of the end, but for John? Oh god,  _anything_  for John.

The boy on top of him currently licking into his mouth and taking everything he has? Yes, Sherlock will give anything to this boy. _Anything_.

They don't talk the rest of the night.

They hardly talk the rest of the summer.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **September 14th**  
_11:30AM_

 

Lunchtime is the longest 40 minutes of Sherlock's miserable life.

John sits meters from him at a different table with his rugby team, avoiding his eyes, shooting pained smiles as his mates laugh and jostle him around, taking jabs at each other like the morons they are. He has no color in his cheeks, no brightness in his eyes. He looks dreadful.

But he doesn't look at Sherlock.

And Sherlock resists the urge to march over to him, ring him by his neck and shout at him that he doesn't have the right to look so wretched because  _he_  is the one who wanted this. It's _his_  fault they both feel like shit today, not Sherlock's.

It's not fair for John to look as unbelievably crushed as Sherlock feels.

It's not bloody _fair_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**August 15th**

 

They are dating.

There isn't any other word for what they're doing.

They see each other daily.

They do everything together.

Then John sneaks into Sherlock's room late at night and snogs him senseless, occasionally letting his hands wander and grope, allowing Sherlock to do the same, and they deliver each other teenage-quick orgasms almost constantly.

They  _are_ dating.

It's secret dating, of course.

No one else knows what they do in Sherlock's room in the middle of the night.

But they are dating.

Aren't they?

Sherlock isn't sure.

He isn't sure if he can call John his boyfriend.

He isn't sure if that's allowed.

What he is sure of is that John is the closest thing to perfect that Sherlock will ever know.

John touches Sherlock constantly.

A hand on his lower back, fingers twining with his, John loves to touch Sherlock, giving him lots of cuddles and kisses every single night, rubbing his back until he falls asleep.

It's the  _best_.

It's  _perfect._

They are still best friends.

And at night they get to be together even more so.

And Sherlock has never ever been happier.

And it's almost possible to forget the end is near.

That school starts in less than a month.

And Sherlock doesn't know if this will continue or not.

What he does know is that when they get back to school, none of this will go public. They won't speak of it to each other or anyone else.

When they go back to school, John will be his best friend again. Not his lover. Not his partner.

Not his  _everything._

And Sherlock doesn't know if he'll be able to bear it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **September 14th**  
_1:30pm_

 

The shell of Sherlock Holmes passes through the rest of his classes without notice.

Everything hurts.

His body.

His mind.

His heart.

His life is nothing.

He never knew keeping a secret like this, hiding his love like this, would hurt so goddamn much. He thought he would be able to handle it, to see John like this, to know what they share in private while hiding it in public.

But when he'd laid eyes on John this morning, he couldn't even  _think_.

And now they haven't spoken.

And now it's all fucked up.

He hates John today.

But not more than he hates himself.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 **September 13th**  
_11:30PM_

 

The night before school begins Sherlock doesn't have to lay awake and wait because John is already here. They'd spent the day together out in the meadow behind Sherlock's house, laying on a blanket, gazing up at the grey sky, Sherlock's head on John's shoulder, hands clasped together.

It's their last day before reality sets in and they both know it, savoring every touch, every whispered endearment. Sherlock drank in everything John offered and for once, held nothing back.

He loves John Watson. He's  _in love_  with John Watson.

There is no in-between.

And there is no going back.

He  _dreads_  tomorrow.

Dreads the day he has to pretend that nothing has happened between them.

Pretend that they are just old friends.

Pretend he isn't dying inside at the sheer need to always be touching John Watson, to love every inch of him forever.

Forever.

That's what Sherlock wants. He wants John  _forever_.

Just not in public.

So he will take this. He will take tonight and any other secret rendezvous behind closed doors until one day John tires of the whole thing, because that's the only logical way this will end; with Sherlock's heart in pieces and John walking away scot-free.

So tonight, he's going all in.

Tonight is all he gets and tonight he's taking it.

John lays him down in his sheets, the sheets that smell like them now, hands caressing his naked body with tenderness as Sherlock's head hits the pillow. He watches John crawl over him, laying gentle kisses along his torso and pectoral muscles, licking lightly at his breastbone before trailing up his jaw. "You are stunning," John murmurs against his lips before capturing them in a searing kiss as Sherlock's hands find their way into John's fringe. "Absolutely  _stunning_."

"John," is the only thing he can articulate as John's palm strokes along his frame, stopping to pinch each nipple into full hardness before continue to soothe his hand down Sherlock's belly.

"Is this alright?" John whispers, lips still touching Sherlock's as he wraps a hand around Sherlock's cock.

A whimper escapes his mouth and he holds fast to John's hair. "John," he all but moans because  _God_  does he love this boy.

"How about this?" John murmurs back, stroking once, twice, three times before trailing his fingers along Sherlock's sensitive sac drawn up tightly against his body, heavy and needy, ready to give it all to John whenever he asks.

All he can do is nod his assent and John replies with a soft, murmur of his own. "And this?" he asks, finger pads tracing Sherlock's perineum, massaging it carefully.

"Yes, John," Sherlock barely suppresses a cry. He needs this. He needs to be one with John, joined in the most intimate of ways. He needs John to be apart of him. Inside of him. Tonight. It's all they have and he needs it  _now_.

"Are you sure?" John rushes out before descending on his mouth again like he can't bear the thought of not kissing Sherlock in this moment. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," Sherlock whispers back and reaches blindly to his bedside table, scrambling for the items he'd procured. He'd been prepared for months. He'd wanted this moment for  _years_. Pressing them into John's chest, he reaches for more kisses, John still hovering over him, still gently touching his most private of areas. "Please," he breathes into John's mouth. "Please."

A soft hum escapes John's lips and then the boy is bringing his free hand up to take the items of Sherlock, condom and a small packet of lubricant. He sits back on his knees, both hands leaving Sherlock's body to work open the packets, first the condom – Sherlock watches as he rolls it onto his cock, biting his lip at the sight of John practically touching himself - then the lube, tearing it open and squeezing some first onto his palm and then his cock, stroking up and down to smear it around.

Sherlock can't suppress a whimper, even as he bites viciously at his bottom lip. John's eyes snap to his, lips parted as he takes in Sherlock practically vibrating with need beneath him as the curly-haired boy stares down his lover's naked body, and suddenly he's scrambling to get back on top of Sherlock, pressing nude flesh to nude flesh, licking into Sherlock's mouth like a hungry animal, body grinding into his, hard cock pressing to his own.

Gliding his hands up his sides, Sherlock finds John's shoulder blades, laying palms against them and pulling him impossibly closer, which is still not close enough. He spreads his thighs, pulling his knees up on either side of John's fit frame, silently asking, practically begging with a roll of his hips.

And John, perfect,  _perfect_  John, understands.

Shifting upward and creating a bit of space between them, John reaches down slowly, gliding a slick hand along Sherlock's aching erection, passing along his balls and finding the puckered skin between his arsecheeks.

Sherlock gasps, legs falling open even further, eyes wide and wondrous staring up at his lover who stares right back.

"Okay?" John whispers, face open with concern wrapped around a heady want that's rolling off of him in waves.

Nodding is all Sherlock can manage and before he can think it through or clamp up or reconsider, the tip of a finger is dipping into him, passing the tight muscled ring of his hole, rubbing every nerve ending surrounding his entrance.

His eyes widen, mouth falling open as that finger slides further in, breeching his body so effortlessly.

"My god," John mumbles above him, giant blue eyes staring back at him worshipfully, " _look_ at you, Sherlock. You are _perfect_."

"John," Sherlock barely chokes out as another one of John's fingers pushes its way in, and the sensation is almost too much. The feeling of something inside of him, of John inside of him, makes him ache in places he didn't even know existed. The intensity of John's gaze, of John touching his most sensitive area so delicately makes his heart swell up in his chest, threatening to clog his airway with emotion. He rocks slightly with the movement of John's fingers penetrating him again and again, so slowly, so effortlessly, like their bodies were designed to do this. Like they fit together. Like two puzzle pieces belonging to one another.

" _Christ_ ," John moans above him, looking away finally to glance down and watch his fingers disappear into Sherlock's body. "Oh, Jesus."

Sherlock makes a soft, desperate sound at the loss of eye contact, hating losing that connection, like they were becoming one together. Like they were in this together.

But suddenly John's fingers have stopped thrusting, slowing down to a smooth twist, spreading apart slightly to assist in stretching Sherlock, moving so slowly it doesn't hurt at all.

And it's not enough.

"I need you," Sherlock all but sobs, pulling at John's shoulders, attempting to get him closer. "Please, John, please…"

A soft, "Oh," emits itself from John's mouth and his fingers slide slowly free from Sherlock and the loss is almost unbearable before the blunt head of John's cock presses against his loosened entrance, John lining himself up before glancing up to Sherlock for confirmation.

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock breathes.

And John pushes in.

It's achingly slow, every inch of John feeling thicker as he continues one long, smooth thrust inside until his hips brush the backs of Sherlock's thighs.

And together, they exhale.

John settles himself on his forearms on either side of Sherlock's body as Sherlock winds his arms around John's shoulders, one hand finding its way into blond fringe and holding on.

And after what could be eternity, John begins to  _rock_.

It's unlike anything Sherlock has ever felt in his lifetime.

Each thrust drags along sensitive skin within him, gliding in and out, deeper and deeper, and Sherlock's hips move at their own accord, lifting to meet John's movements in rhythm. He can hear himself panting, cheek pressed against John's sweaty temple as he inhales sharply, the smell of his lover surrounding him in a heady wave, choking on his exhale as John's cock drags along his prostate.

He doesn't mean to cry out as loudly as he does, but it only spurs John on, movements quickening as that blond head turns and buries into Sherlock's shoulder. "There you go, baby," John mutters into his sweat-soaked skin. "Christ, right there."

Sherlock is clutching John to him as their pace quickens, his entire frame feeling unnaturally full. Full of John. Christ, he could do this forever. He could love John like this  _forever_.

He feels John's knees spread beneath him in the sheets as he pushes in a bit harder, and Sherlock keens as John's ripped stomach muscles skid across his deeply flushed cock between them. "John," he cries into blond fringe, desperately hanging on as John murmurs praise in his ear.

"You are beautiful, so beautiful Sherlock, so good for me and so bloody gorgeous," John is gasping, hips stuttering and it's enough to push Sherlock under.

He rolls through his orgasm, pressing his face into golden strands of hair, broken sounds freeing themselves from his mouth as he comes between them, hot liquid dripping down his stomach in thick white ropes, and John follows him down, a few more quick thrusts before he's practically sobbing into Sherlock's neck, grinding him into the mattress in pure, unadulterated bliss.

Clinging to his lover, Sherlock doesn't loosen his grip. Not when his orgasm is over. Not when John's orgasm is over. Not when warm semen begins to dry on his belly. Not ever.

He can't let go.

He can't.

Tears sting his eyes as he clutches John to him, thighs tightening into John's sides to keep him here, keep him as close as possible.

Sherlock closes his eyes and attempts to fend off the tears while simultaneously fending off all thoughts of tomorrow, when he will no longer have John like this.

"Stay with me," he whispers into the dark, holding tighter to the boy in his arms whose softening cock is still buried inside him. "Please."

A soft kiss grazes his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere, love," John whispers.

And still, Sherlock can't relax, holding on like his life depends on it.

And as far as he's concerned, it does.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **September 14th**  
_2:30PM_

Sherlock watches John walk out the door of the school, and everything hurts all over again.

He'd seen him all day long.

Been so close to him.

And yet now… now John is leaving.

Again.

Without a single look back.

And Sherlock already knows what's coming.

The perfect ending to the worst day of his life.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **September 14th**  
_11:45PM_

 

It's the shuddering of the windowpane that would have woken him this time.

If he'd been asleep to begin with.

He lies silently, listening to John creep along the floorboards of his bedroom, the presence of him already filling the room. This room needs a John Watson in it at all times. Even when Sherlock is furious with that blond boy, it feels empty without him.

The covers pull slightly and Sherlock watches as the moonlit outline of his best friend crawls into bed with him, saying nothing at all.

He doesn't reach for Sherlock immediately and it crushes the curly-haired boy. Even in his furious state, he still craves John's touch.

They lay silently, taking in each other's dark forms.

It's all he can do not to scoot forward and bury himself in his John.

Instead, he waits.

Waits for it all to come crashing down.

"I don't think I can do this," John whispers into the darkness.

And Sherlock exhales silently.

He'd known this was coming.

It still hurts like hell.

It was a wonderful summer.

And now it's over.

"I wish I could. I  _tried_ ," John continues, his soft voice somehow sounding harsh – almost rough in the darkness. "God help me, I did. But seeing you today… I can't, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock murmurs back, sharp tears stinging the corners of his eyes even as the calm of knowing and accepting the truth settles over him. It hurts- Christ, it's  _agony_  – but he'd known hadn't he? He'd always known.

"I wish I could be as strong as you," John continues as Sherlock sniffs harshly, running the back of his hand along his cheekbone, wiping a stray tear that had snuck out from his eye. "I wish I could do what you did today. You were so much braver than I was. You… you can pretend much better than I can."

Sherlock attempts to cough out a condescending laugh at that completely ridiculous statement because Lord knows he hadn't held it together today, not even a little bit, but the sound comes out as more of a bitten-off sob and Sherlock vows not to speak again during this conversation for fear of that sound reappearing.

"Oh, love," John murmurs, shifting slightly and Sherlock waits, hope blooming in his chest that maybe John will touch him again. Just one last time. Just to say good-bye.

But the boy stops himself, hand half-outstretched before retracting it, pulling away from Sherlock, pulling away from what they have. Pulling away once and for all.

It breaks Sherlock's heart all over again.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock breathes. He doesn't know why he's sorry but he is. He's sorry he's not different. He's sorry he's not someone John can be with. Can be  _seen_ with. Can date publicly. He's sorry he's not good enough. He wishes so much that he were.

"No, don't say that," John whispers brokenly, his words rasping on a sob. "Don't be sorry. I…  _I'm_  sorry. I'm sorry that I can't be stronger for you but to see you every day… I just can't."

"I get it," Sherlock replies sharply, regretting it immediately when John flinches, but he can't take it anymore. He just wants it to end. He wants John to stop talking and stop being this close without touching him. He wants John to stop apologizing and stop making excuses. He wants this all to  _stop_. "I understand, okay? It's fine. Just… just go. Okay? Please."

John hesitates, lingering on his side of the bed, the side that has smelled only of him for months on end, before he turns, rolling out of the bed, feet landing softly on the hardwood.

Laying as still as possible, Sherlock tracks John's silhouette as it crosses the room, watching as the love of his life leaves him.

Sherlock wants to say something so badly. Something stupid and sentimental.

He says nothing.

He only watches.

Watches John leave him for good.

John stops at the window and for the first time tonight, Sherlock can see his face clearly, features lit up by the moon, cheeks glistening slightly with tear tracks. His heart leaps into his throat as John turns back to him.

"I wish I understood," John murmurs. "I wish I understood why, you know? I think it would make this easier for me. But I know you hate talking about it. Just… if one day… if one day you feel comfortable, will you tell me why? Because I… I would have  _loved_  to show you off, Sherlock. As my… I would have been  _honored_ to have the entire school know you were mine. I just… I wish I knew why you don't want that. So, if one day, you-"

"What?" Sitting bolt right up in bed, Sherlock is suddenly unbelievably confused, barking out a rather loud question as his entire body swells with panic.

Freezing at the sudden movement, John's mouth snaps shut, jumping slightly at the sound. "I- uh-"

"What did you just say?" Sherlock cuts him off, kicking the covers free from him and practically falling out of bed in his haste to get to John.

"Uh- I was- I just was saying that- Jesus,  _careful_ Sherlock, Christ- I was just saying in the future if you could ever feel comfortable, I would like to know-"

"No," Sherlock barks, waving his useless statement away, because Sherlock is inquiring about something else entirely, something urgent and John is not  _listening._  "No, the other thing. The thing about… about showing me off?"

Blinking rapidly in understanding, Sherlock can see John's cheeks redden in the glow of the moonlight. "Oh," he murmurs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, "yeah, I… I would have. And I know, I  _know_  you asked me to keep it a secret, and I will, I promise, but I guess I just meant-"

"I didn't ask you to keep it a secret!" Sherlock rails rather loudly, alarm bells ringing in his ears to keep it down because it is the middle of the night for godsake. "I didn't ever ask you that," he says, amending his previous volume.

John gapes at him for a long moment.

And Sherlock watches as his face darkens slightly. "Yes, you did," John bites back, "That second night at the beginning of summer. You said you weren't going to tell anyone."

"I said that for  _you_ ," Sherlock volleys back, irritation and hope and panic and fear all warring for dominance within his slender body. "You asked me what we were doing, implying you didn't want anyone to know and I said-"

"No, I wasn't  _implying_  anything," John snaps back, "I was genuinely asking! I wasn't sure what you wanted and-"

"Oh I think it was pretty damn clear what I wanted," Sherlock snips, frustration taking over for the time being as he stares down his best friend. "I think it was pretty goddamn obvious what exactly it was that I wanted-"

"No it  _wasn't_!" John bites out from between gritted teeth. "That's why I bloody  _asked_  you and you said you weren't going to tell anyone,  _implying_ that you didn't want anyone to know!"

"I was telling you that your secret was safe! That I wouldn't tell anyone because I thought that's what you wanted! I wasn't  _implying_ anything!"

"Neither was I!"

They both freeze, their voices getting dangerously loud for a 2am conversation, panting slightly in their anger. They stare at each other for a long moment, both assessing exactly what just happened.

It's taking an unnaturally long time for Sherlock to catch up, his mind clouded darkly with hurt and anger, mixing bitterly with hope that maybe… just maybe…

John is the one to break the silence, scrubbing a hand down his face as he shifts his weight. "Oh my god," he mutters into his palm. "So… so all this time, you thought I was ashamed of you?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies bluntly, because when it gets right down to it, that is exactly what he thought.

"And I thought you were ashamed of me?" John ventures.

"Apparently," Sherlock replies with a shrug.

"But you're… you're not?" The hope in that sweet voice makes Sherlock's chest ache.

"Not even a little bit," Sherlock replies honestly. "I can't believe you would ever even  _think_ that-"

"Well, you don't exactly date, Sherlock," John bites back. "I didn't know what you wanted."

"Well, all you date is short blonde girls with pretty smiles and popularity to boot, which I don't know if you realize or not but I'm the furthest thing from."

"Yeah but you're…  _you_ ," John mumbles in annoyance, throwing a hand toward Sherlock in a gesture that is clearly meant to convey his point more than it does. "You are Sherlock Holmes. You're  _perfect._  How could I ever… _Why_  would I ever want to deny that you're mine?"

Face heating at the ferocity of John's words, Sherlock looks away, biting at his lip, heart pounding so hard in his chest he wonders if it's going to beat right out of his body and make a new home inside of John's. Where it's belonged now for years. He didn't know John felt this way about him. He didn't… he had no idea.

"Sherlock," John murmurs and suddenly he's very close, much closer than he's been all night and Sherlock revels in his nearness while simultaneously panicking that all of this is, yet again, just one giant misunderstanding. He waits.

"Sherlock, look at me," John breathes.

Turning his head back toward him, Sherlock finds he can't meet his gaze.

"Sherlock," John murmurs, "I… I love you. I have loved you for such a long time that I don't even know how long it's been. I just know that it's all that I am now. I am the guy in love with his best friend and I… this summer has been everything to me. I… I didn't know that you didn't know that."

"Of  _course_  I didn't know that," Sherlock mutters, "how could I? With all the girlfriends you have and-"

"Forget the girlfriends," John steps closer, cutting him off. "They aren't anything compared to you. I couldn't… I couldn't  _bear_  it, Sherlock. Not being with you like that… only being friends. I couldn't… You are my best friend. Always have been. I'd rather date nameless girls than risk our friendship. Not when I thought you didn't feel the same way."

Sherlock can't breathe.

Is this real?

Is this happening?

"Oh," he murmurs because it's all he can say. It's all he's able to reply because John has took all of his words right out of his mouth, expressing every feeling Sherlock has ever had and it's too much.

"Oh?" John takes another step closer. "And do you... do you feel...what do you feel-"

"I love you," Sherlock blurts, because his brain has finally caught up and his words are tumbling freely and John needs to understand. John needs to  _know_  that Sherlock would never want to hide him, that Sherlock wants him so badly, that Sherlock has loved him for ages and it's imperative that John bloody Watson knows all of this  _right_   _now_.

And with a single sentence, the wheels click into place and a slow, surprised yet rather pleased smile creeps its way onto John's lips. "Yeah?" he ventures, eyes wide and round and hopeful and it builds something in Sherlock's chest.

"I love you, John," Sherlock repeats because it seems important to say it again. To say it over and over until it's no longer questioned. "I love you and I would never want to hide the fact that we're together, not ever, and today was  _unbearable_  without you, without speaking to you, seeing you and having to ignore you, it was awful, John, the absolute worst day and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry but I've loved you for most of my life and I can't- I don't even know who I am without you and-"

"Alright, hey, it's alright," John cuts him off, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck to soothe him, pulling him closer to press their foreheads together. "It's alright. I understand."

Oh, thank god. Thank god for John Watson because if he hadn't have stopped him, Sherlock doesn't know what would have come tumbling out. More humiliating truths he's kept hidden away for so long, probably.

They stand in silence, John's thumb rubbing the base of his skull back and forth, tracing the curl at the nape of his neck, squeezing gently to calm him, the warmth of his forehead against Sherlock's grounding him.

"We've loved each other all this time, haven't we?" John murmurs, reaching out his free hand for Sherlock's, eyes locked on their now intertwined fingers, worrying at his bottom lip.

"We have," Sherlock confirms softly, watching as John's beautiful blue eyes snap to his in an instant, heart lurching harshly in his chest at the emotion he sees in them. "We always have," he breathes, leaning in because it's too much, too much to watch those precious pools of aqua blue look at him like that, open and honest and raw and so full of love it wraps thick bands around Sherlock's chest and squeezes.

"Always," John whispers over his lips before they connect again, no longer tentative but strong with surety, silently promising so much more than they can say right at this moment.

"Thank you," the words come out before he even realizes it, falling freely from his lips and onto John's, his face immediately flushing slightly, but John only pulls him closer.

"Thank  _you_ ," John murmurs, brushing his lips over Sherlock's heated cheeks, "thank you for being patient. I'm so sorry I hurt you in the process, I had no idea you... I- wasn't... just thank you, okay? Thank you. Thank you for... wanting me."

"I will  _always_  want you," Sherlock replies, wrapping arms around John's neck, desperately needing the blond boy to understand how much he wants him. How much he _needs_  him. "Absolutely always."

Brushing fingers through his curls, John makes a soft, precious sound, lips finding Sherlock's again with reverence. "Always," he repeats.

And Sherlock finds that he can breathe again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!! 
> 
> We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in!


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